Piet Hein Eek Dakar 2024 EN

Dakar 2024
Piet Hein Eek

I’ve been to Dakar
with Geertje
“Eindhoven Dakar art and design rally”
All three of my daughters, as a reward for something they’ve achieved in their
lives and truly worked hard for (it can’t be too easy), have been allowed to choose
a trip with me. Lieve and Roos decided, after passing their exams, to go to Japan.
Pretty clever, since they know it’s my favorite destination. Just like when they
used to pick bedtime stories, they quickly figured out that they’d be read to much
longer if I also enjoyed the story. Now they knew they’d get more “value for money”
by choosing Japan. It’s been years, but those were very special trips, and I can
still remember so much from them. But Geertje, when she finished her studies,
thought, *I want something really special and different*.
A few years ago, we came up with the idea to go to the art biennale in Dakar. The
city of the Baobabs, where Orchestra Baobab more than 50 years ago made a name
for itself as the house band in the club of the same name. Africa fascinates me
immensely, and art is like a mirror for society, like a thermometer for the state
of the world. Since it’s an adventure, we booked our tickets well in advance. A
month ago, however, it was suddenly announced that the biennale had been postponed
by a few months. We’re debating whether we should still go. No festival,
but surely there will be plenty of art to see, and we can just experience the city as
it is. Geertje thinks she’ll be far too busy in November anyway, so we’re sticking
to our original dates. I’ve booked Hotel Lagon 2, a 1970s hotel built half into the
sea along the coast. The restaurant of the same name (Lagon 1) is a few hundred
meters further, built on a pier.
We’ll drive to Brussels very early in the morning, as there are direct and affordable
flights from there. Makes sense, since Belgium has a much more recent
and lively history with Africa. Whether that’s something positive, though, is
debatable. We haven’t yet figured out how we’ll get from the airport to the hotel.
The brand-new airport, built by the Chinese, is located outside the city,
and the railway connection—partially built by the French but now being completed
by the Chinese—hasn’t arrived yet. So, we’ll have to take a taxi. As soon
as we head toward the exit, we’re approached by a large number of drivers.

At that point, we don’t yet realize how quickly we’ll need to learn
to kindly shake off people who want something (usually money)
from us. The first driver succeeds immediately, we follow him and
get in. It’s our first taxi. An old thing, with worn-out upholstery,
various things don’t work, but the air conditioning does—and we
don’t yet know how special that is. I assume that people who have
things figured out know how to get a decent taxi, but I later conclude
that they probably have their own cars with drivers. The only recognizable
taxis here are yellow and black, and nearly all of them
are in terrible condition!
We drive for over an hour, first through a barren landscape, but
soon the outskirts of the city appear. It’s an endless road through an
urban 1. Taxi’s wasteland in Dakar of unfinished buildings made from gray concrete
blocks. Here and there, laundry is hung outside, some houses are
plastered, and the mosques are either finished or still under construction.
The road is incredibly busy and dusty, and most of the
cars would never pass inspection where we’re from. We drive in
long, random lines toward the city center. If four cars can fit next
to each other, we drive with four side by side, and when the road
narrows or a car is parked or there’s simply an object in the road
(for no apparent reason), the driver boldly and skillfully merges.
The number of lanes seems to be determined by how many cars the
drivers think can fit next to each other—when traffic slows, more
cars fit! Geertje finds it thrilling, while I’m thoroughly enjoying
the anarchy and chaos.

A large portion of the vehicles are ancient Mercedes buses converted
for passenger transport. These buses are all dented, some roughly
hammered out, and beautifully painted. They’re packed full, with
loaders hanging off the back step, clinging to the ladders used to load
enormous piles of luggage onto the roof racks. We even see cars with
a few goats strapped to the roof. We don’t yet know that next week,
right after we leave, there’s a festival where almost everyone eats
goat. The city is teeming with goats.
When we arrive at the hotel, it turns out to be in a rather dilapidated
state. Right up my alley, but Geertje was expecting a bit more luxury
and is somewhat disappointed. Months ago, when I made the reservation,
I asked for two separate beds. When I inquire about it, the
lady at the reception confirms that this was indeed the request. After
some brief communication, a mattress is brought out, and the porter
and a hotel staff member carry it under their arm as they walk with
us to our room.

As we enter the room, they quickly rush in,
pull out the sofa bed, throw the mattress on it,
and make the bed. Now we have the two separate
beds we asked for. I was pretty confident the
hotel would be good because very close friends
of ours—who are quite fond of luxury—had recommended
it, but now I’m starting to have my
doubts. Later, I realize they probably stayed in
one of the suites on the upper floor. Personally, I
love it. The hotel is old and worn, built long ago
with a lot of care and attention, never renovated,
and thus never ruined, so it’s still an experience.
It’s built half into the sea.
We walk to our rooms, with a sort of jungle clinging
to the old coastal rocks on our right and the
hotel building on our left, with doors leading to
the rooms. Large sections feature black-painted
shutters and panels, with a small window and
the entrance to each room between them. The
windows and doors are round. The railing along
the jungle slopes away, making it feel like you’re
walking on the deck of a ship toward your cabin.
Later, I notice that the hallway below us, and really
the entire ground floor, isn’t maintained at
all—I think some of the staff might sleep there.
That same evening, we have dinner at the restaurant
on the pier. It’s beautifully maintained, once
again with a maritime theme, but instead of modern
architecture, it’s much more classic, built
from ship parts—varnished wood, brass and copper
windows, fish hanging from the ceiling, and photos
of water sports enthusiasts from a bygone era
on the walls. Later, we learn that the photos, over
50 years old, are of the restaurant’s owners, their
guests, and friends. The boy in the photos, now a
grown man, is the one running the business today.
We have a wonderful time, the food is decent, and
we share our first bottle of rosé. In Dakar, there are
three types of rosé to choose from. Throughout the
rest of our stay, we realize that all the restaurants offer
the same selection. If you dine at a more expensive
place, it’s the same bottle, just priced higher.
This actually happens in the Netherlands too, but
with our wider selection, it’s less noticeable. In Senegal,
despite vast mineral and fossil wealth and
plenty of potential, almost everything is imported.
They do make their own concrete though, and
that’s evident everywhere! After our first day, we
head to bed tired but content. The next day, we’ll figure
out what to do—definitely see a lot of art, try to
find some music, and explore the city on foot!

View of dining room Lagon 2.
Stairs along wall of Pullman.
Old hotel now housing fishermen.
Hotel Lagon 2.
Soccer beach with goals made of old tires.
Inside Hotel Lagon 2.

Dakar
There’s only a two-hour time difference, so
getting up is almost effortless. Geertje is awake
before I am and already busy working on
her laptop. Throughout the trip, she works
every morning and whenever there’s a spare
moment. She’s just as driven as I used to be.
I’m more relaxed, processing the experiences
and thinking about what we could do. I start
looking up the first galleries we should visit
and think we can walk the first part. Geertje
is a bit hesitant about walking because it’s hot
and seems far. But of course, we end up walking—it’s
the best way to explore a city.
We walk along the coastal road, La Corniche,
passing by the Lagon 1 restaurant (the hotel is
Lagon 2) with its private beach. They’ve built a
sort of pier to separate paying guests from the
local population. The “public beach” is a soccer
beach, littered with an unbelievable amount
of trash against the slope, and at the far end
of the beach, there’s a shantytown made of
scrap materials. The goals are made of two tires
half-buried in the ground.
A bit further along, on the other side of the
road, stands the Pullman Hotel, a dull, large,
reddish-brown building perched on the slope,
with walls and structures reaching down to
the road, and on the other side, by the water,
it has its own pool. To the right, beside the tall
walls, an old, poorly maintained, but colorfully
decorated stone staircase leads upward.
At the service entrance of the Pullman, we
see the only ragged homeless person we’ll encounter
in the coming weeks. With 93% of
the population being Muslim, divided into
three sects and very tolerant of each other
and others, there’s hardly any drinking. As
a result, there’s less of the usual trouble with
vagrants who spend their days passed out and
in decline. However, by the service entrance
of the Pullman, the smell from this one homeless
person reminds me of how many places in
Paris reek similarly.
On the other side of the staircase, behind a
sleek wall with a wooden door, we glimpse
lush greenery. That wooden door leads to one
of the few restored colonial buildings, where a
small hotel-restaurant is located. It turns out
to be the place recommended to me after I had
already booked at Le Lagon. It’s a delightful
spot, serving Italian cuisine, and as is the case
almost everywhere here, the staff are incredibly
kind and skilled.
On the staircase, we meet a young Frenchman.
Since Senegal is a former French colony,
there are still many French people living
here. He’s a really fun guy. He’s in Dakar for a
few weeks working for the IMF (International
Monetary Fund) but had lived here for years
before. We exchange ideas on things to do—or
more accurately, we share our plans, and he
offers some tips. We briefly touch on politics
and the recently elected prime minister, about
whom everyone I’ve spoken to so far has been
very positive. It’s a rather complicated situation
though, as the president was essentially
put forward by a highly beloved politician
who was accused and convicted of inappropriate
behavior towards his secretary.

No one really knows whether the accusations
are true or not, but the fact remains that he
can’t become president. The man he put forward
is of impeccable character and, after taking
office, announced that he plans to reopen
contracts with multinationals and foreign
countries to renegotiate terms that would benefit
the nation. After some initial uproar, he
added that he would do so with respect for all
parties involved.
The young French banker says he’s curious to
see how things will go with the new president,
but then calls him a racist. I ask what he means,
and he explains that the president wants
to expel white people (the French) from the
country. I find it amusing and respond that, in
that case, he’s more of an anti-colonialist and
simply wants autonomy. And if he actually
follows through on his promises—ensuring the
population benefits—it would be the best thing
that could happen to the country and everyone
involved. I believe the banker agrees with me.
So, it’s exciting to see if the president will keep
his word, which would be quite remarkable in
Africa.
One of the most notable stories I keep hearing
is that, after being elected, one of the president’s
first actions was to declare that, since the
country was a mess, it needed to be cleaned up.
Twice a month, on Sundays, everyone must
participate in cleaning. I ask how this is paid
for, and the response is that people respect their
elders (those in power), so when something is
requested, they do it. Plus, everyone seems enthusiastic
about the measure. They say the city
has already become noticeably cleaner in just
two months.
Later, I hear that Dakar was once a very green
city during the French colonial period. Now,
it’s more like a city of sand and stone, filled
with a vast number of poorly or entirely unmaintained
colonial-era buildings, dirt roads
or streets where the pavement seems to have
disappeared, and many unfinished modern
structures. Even the completed ones are simply
unattractive. Perhaps the most impressive
buildings are still the massive residential
blocks built by the French around the central
square (Place de l’Indépendance). You can see
that they once housed opulent and luxurious
apartments, and that this area must have been
the city’s luxury hub.
We continue walking, and after the Pullman,
to the right, there are a few modern, and therefore
ugly, apartment buildings. Shortly after,
we pass a quirky old villa built between
the road and the sea, which seems to have last
served as a beach café, but is now closed and
awaiting demolition. The building is painted
in black and white, and in a niche, there’s a
half-sunken sign that says “chantier interdit au
public” (“singing prohibited in public”). I suspect
it’s being demolished because it’s too close
to the presidential palace.
Immediately after the black-and-white villa,
to the right of the road, stands a long concrete
wall surrounding the presidential gardens.
La Corniche, the long coastal road, runs between
the sea and the palace gardens, meaning
the president cannot simply walk from his
garden to the sea. In fact, a high concrete wall
surrounds him for protection. After the palace,
the road continues along the rugged coastline.
Beautiful old buildings stand near the water
below, but they’re either abandoned or occupied
by the local population. An old hotel and
its annexes are now a base for fishermen. At
this point, the coast no longer belongs to the
wealthy. They live in the large, protected apartment
buildings overlooking the sea, with their
own private beaches.

Singing prohibited in public.
Motorcycle they are trying to keep like new!

5

We pass by a kind of park situated between
the road and the sea. The stairs and pathways
leading down are made of concrete filled with
rubber tires, creating a beautiful and effective
surface. Geertje stands on the road above
the path, busy on her phone, trying to resolve
some production issues back home while I
explore the rubber tire park. Geertje wants to
stop by a pharmacy because we lost one prescription
in the Netherlands, leaving us with
only half of our malaria pills. I’m okay with it,
but Geertje prefers not to take any risks.
When we spot a pharmacy, we go inside. It’s
surprisingly modern and well-kept. We ask
for the pills, and they have the exact same
ones we need. We also want some sunscreen,
and soon we’re being offered various other
products. They notice Geertje’s very pale and
sensitive skin and suggest several options. Ultimately,
I think it’s indeed a good idea to buy
something for after sun exposure for her.
We head to the register, but the card reader
isn’t working, so we pay in cash. One euro is
about 650 Senegalese francs, and we’re still
getting used to the exchange rate. Once outside,
we realize we’ve spent quite a bit. The malaria
treatment is comparable to prices in the
Netherlands, but everything else isn’t cheap,
and the aftersun lotion didn’t make it into the
bag. I think to myself that if they need to pay
all the employees in the store who would likely
earn nothing otherwise, then it’s fine to pay
a bit more.
We continue walking, taking in all the sights,
but I’m not really focused on the path. After a
while, I start to think it’s taking too long because
we should have reached the neighborhood
with the galleries by now. I check my
phone and see that we’ve missed our turn early
on. The route planner indicates that the route
is unknown, but the map with my location is
available, so I just need to figure out where I
am and where our destination is, and then I
can navigate better.
We now have to walk quite a distance, and instead
of going back along La Corniche, we decide
to head straight up toward our goal. I still
don’t quite know where we want to go since I
couldn’t find the exact location, let alone plot
it on the map. As we walk in what I think is
the right direction, we eventually get tired of
it. We pass the bus station, with a sand lot behind
it, on a slope. At the top of the slope is
a kind of taxi stand, where dozens of the yellow-black
taxis we’ve seen throughout the city
are parked.
It’s a colorful assortment of vehicles, none of
which are without dents and most fitting the
description of wrecks. So far, we haven’t seen
a single normal taxi on the road, leading us
to conclude that they simply don’t exist. The
taxi drivers are circling around, offering rides,
providing the same service to tourists but at a
different price. They probably have no idea
that the vehicle they’re driving wouldn’t even
be allowed on the road back home, and that
their passengers are feeling a bit uneasy.
Interestingly, there’s room for negotiation on
the price, but you have to be better at it than
they are, and for them, it’s their livelihood, so I
consistently lose the bargaining game without
being too bothered by it. The taxi drivers realize
we’re looking for a ride and try to offer us all
sorts of options. We end up walking with the
most cunning one and discover that he is the
proud owner of the biggest wreck of them all.

We step inside, me on the right in the back seat, and I see in the side mirror—held
together with tape and barely hanging on—that the taxi number
is painted on the door. I find it beautiful and want to take photos, but I
hesitate, thinking he might not appreciate me photographing his broken
car, which is valuable to him. It’s a miracle the car even runs.
The dashboard has no buttons, radio, ashtray, or drawers; it’s a dusty grayblack
Swiss cheese of holes with the car’s innards exposed behind it. The
ceiling hangs at least five centimeters loose from the roof, and the original
brown soundproofing material is visible on the sides. I wonder how the
ceiling stays up.
Photos would have been helpful to provide a full description. The driver
releases the handbrake, and the car starts rolling down the slope. He lets
the clutch come up; the car doesn’t start on the first try but fires up on the
second. Since he lacks nearly all buttons and doesn’t have a starter motor,
he must always park on a hill with a clear path.
We drive toward an art gallery that everyone seems to think I want to visit.
It’s in the direction of where I thought we needed to go. The driver asks for
2,000 francs, about 3 euros, which seems like a fair price!
Upon arrival, it turns out to be one of the busiest places in Dakar, and the
gallery isn’t a gallery but a passage filled with lots of little shops. More like
a bazaar, but with plenty of local art—or rather, tourist trinkets. Before
we’ve even gotten out of the car, a very friendly man approaches us. He
speaks both French and English. His French is “regular” French instead of
Senegalese French, so I can follow him well. Geertje doesn’t speak French
at all, so it’s nice to communicate in English.
He takes us around to various shops and friends, seeming to know everyone.
Instead of the vendors offering us items, he does it; we are his customers.
It seems there’s an unwritten rule that if a clever trader hooks a tourist
and manages to get high prices by being persuasive, they can just sell
items from someone else’s shop. I assume they later regroup to negotiate
who gets what.
In the end, I buy a soccer jersey from the Senegal national football team,
which I find quite fitting, as football is played everywhere, just like it used
to be back home. They’re big, athletic, skillful boys who spend their time
playing football instead of sitting behind a television or laptop, which they
probably don’t even have. It’s only a matter of time before Senegal becomes
world champion, and now I already have a jersey!

Our self-appointed guide takes us to a street I want
to explore because I see a large gate leading to an
area filled with numerous old trucks and buses.
However, Geertje has had enough; she feels uncomfortable
and wants to return to the hotel to
escape the chaos. I politely decline the man’s offer
and we set off to find a taxi, which we manage to
find fairly quickly.
Back at the hotel, we speak with the security guard
(there are guards everywhere) about our plans to
explore galleries the next day, and he suggests we
take the hotel driver. For the program we have in
mind, it would cost about 20,000 francs, or 30 euros,
which is reasonable. Geertje thinks that’s quite
a lot, noting that the minimum monthly wage in
Senegal is 95 euros. We agree to set off with the driver
the following morning at eleven.
We decide to do some grocery shopping. We walk
down the road from the hotel to the colorful staircase
leading into the city. Outside the hotel, there’s
a bustling crowd of beggars in wheelchairs. I wonder
why they all beg in the same spot. It would be
much more efficient to spread out or stagger their
times. Maybe they just enjoy each other’s company.
The restaurant attracts wealthy patrons, and it
seems worth it for them to wait there day in and
day out.
As we walk by, a very nice man starts walking with
us and makes quick contact. “Ah, Dutch people!”
He’s lived in Rotterdam and speaks a few words of
Dutch. Before we know it, he’s given Geertje a gift,
genuinely wanting to share because he finds us so
pleasant. He soon learns we’re looking for a supermarket
and offers to take us there. He has nothing
else to do and is headed in that direction.
When we arrive, I make a half-hearted attempt to
suggest that we can manage the shopping ourselves,
but he insists on joining us. When I clearly
express that we don’t really need him, he says he
doesn’t need anything, but he has to take care of his
wife and children, which of course requires money.
He won’t leave until I give him something, and
when I try to offer him a couple thousand francs
(a few euros), he insists it’s too little, claiming his
family deserves more than just rice.
To get rid of him, I eventually hand over 10,000
francs.
We conclude that I need to get much better at
brushing people off so I don’t constantly feel like
I’m being scammed. On the other hand, the man
likely wouldn’t be so clever if he had enough. A
few days later, while walking through the city, he
recognizes us from afar and promptly approaches,
calling out, “My friends from Holland!” We make
a quick exit. He has no idea we feel like he’s been
trying to con us!
Back at the hotel, we decide to have dinner again at
Lagon 1, the restaurant on the pier next to the hotel.
We enjoy a delightful evening; the atmosphere
and service are fantastic, but the food is nothing to
write home about. Almost all the other Europeans
we talk to find the food quite good, so perhaps it’s
just the choices we’re making. The people are incredibly
friendly. Geertje quickly connects with
the owners and staff, making our days there enjoyable
and cozy.
That evening, I dive into the internet to prepare for
the next day, hoping to give the taxi driver clear directions
and visit several galleries.

Taximan
The taxi driver is named Bassirou, but I later
learn that his friends call him Bas. He is young
and strong and speaks Senegalese French, so I
have to pay close attention. His teeth are in bad
shape, and it seems he never goes to the dentist.
I’ve seen quite a few clinics, but judging by the
state of people’s teeth, it’s clearly not accessible
to everyone. It’s a shame because he’s a nice guy.
Today, we have a dedicated driver who simply
waits for us while we go inside places. Sometimes
he walks with us, which is quite handy
since it helps us avoid being approached by a lot
of people trying to sell us something. I ask him a
ton of questions about everything I see and wonder
about. He tells me about goats, mentioning
that a holiday is coming up when everyone will
eat goat, so the animals will soon be slaughtered.
The unfinished buildings are a result of legislation
and economic crisis. They don’t have to be
completed, and people continue building when
they have the money. During the COVID-19 crisis,
many builders faced difficulties, leading to
more unfinished buildings than ever. He explains
how the president was elected and that
he is doing a good job. He also mentions that he
needs to arrange for another goat for his family,
which is expensive, but he also has two goats
with his father to sell (I think I don’t quite understand
him there). The city is actually pretty
safe as long as it’s busy; the quiet spots are much
more dangerous.
We had just the opposite feeling. Bas explains
that La Corniche, the long coastal road, is quite
dangerous in the quiet areas. Scooters zoom
past you, grabbing everything loose. The taxi
isn’t his, but he would love to have his own one
day. He’s saving for that, which isn’t easy because
he has to provide for his wife, children, and
parents. As we talk and drive from one gallery
to another, we get to know each other. I’ve tried
to map out a smart route, but sometimes we end
up driving long distances anyway. It turns out to
be a pretty effective way to experience the city.
It’s like a panorama unfolding before us. Dakar
is lively. Everything and everyone is alive, working,
and trading on the streets. A garage repairs
cars right on the sidewalk—jack under the
car, engine out, and you’re good to go.
One of our main destinations for the day is the
Villages Des Arts, a neighborhood where artists
live, work, or display their art. These are
old shanties provided to artists. Dakar has had
an art academy for a long time, and art seems
rooted in the city. This is likely why the African
Art Biennale takes place in Dakar. It’s a large
area with many artists, although not all of them
are present, but the studios are mostly open,
and there’s a lot to see and experience outside.
There’s also an exhibition space where a rather
unfriendly woman is walking around. We later
learn from Bassirou that she had to pray (which
she did).
We definitely didn’t arrive at the best time! It’s a
lovely exhibition with a well-prepared catalog,
but walking around outside, talking to the artists,
and seeing their work in the place where it’s
created is much more interesting and impactful.
When I ask Bas if he doesn’t have to pray too, he
says he does that when he can; they’re not too
strict about it! We see beautiful work from different
artists, but it’s too much to take in all at
once, so we decide to leave and come back later.
We still have nearly a week to explore.

In between our activities, I look into where the galleries are, and
slowly but surely, I’m getting a bit better at navigating the city and
understanding it. We’re actually close to the old center, where
everything is walkable, so we decide to walk the next day. We see
beautiful art in various forms. In several large galleries, there are
surprisingly impressive museum-quality installations on display.
Dakar is truly an art city.
In the afternoon, we have an appointment with Bibi Seck, a designer
with Senegalese roots. We got his name from Anaïs, a connection
we have a wonderful rapport with. She has a vacation home
near Dakar where we’ll be going in a few days, and she visits regularly.
She’s given us a lot of tips, one of which is that we should
meet each other. First, we stop by Selebe Yoon, a stunning gallery
on the top floor of what was once a French luxury department store.
We spend a long time looking around, and I’m amazed by the
quality of the work and the presentations, as well as the warm
welcome. Initially, I actually thought this was Bibi’s gallery, but
after some subtle probing, I discover that’s not the case. His studio
is down the same street, further down on the right side across
from Place de l’Independance. Despite the fairly clear directions,
it’s challenging to find, and the messages I send to Bibi apparently
don’t go through. Eventually, it turns out that the gallery/studio is
on the upper floors and accessible via a side entrance.
We feel a bit awkward; I’ve only taken a brief look and know that
Bibi has a gallery (which is also what Anaïs mentioned), but I
didn’t realize he’s a well-known designer. When we finally make
it upstairs, he’s in conversation with a nice Frenchman. We exchange
thoughts, and slowly but surely, it becomes more relaxed.
Geertje later comments that this is largely thanks to Bibi, as he’s
the one keeping the conversation going. Bibi works alongside his
wife, who is also a designer and is currently busy with her work.
The atmosphere isn’t electrifying, but it’s pleasant.
We want to arrange to grab a meal or drink together, but that doesn’t
seem to work out. We’re headed to Anaïs’s vacation home in
Saly, and they’ll be leaving Dakar when we return. We try to make
plans for that evening, but it doesn’t happen. I have a delightful
meal with Geertje at Seku Bi, the restaurant in the hotel near the
colorful staircase with the street performer, which Anaïs actually
recommended for lodging. Instead of the faded glory found in
many places, it’s restored to a romantic colonial elegance here.

Orchestra
Baobab
I wanted to go to Dakar because it’s the city where Orchestra
Baobab once played as the house band in the club of the
same name. More than fifty years after the orchestra was
founded, I went to a live concert with Steef in Haarlem just
before we departed for Dakar. Steef made contact, and we
found out that they’re performing today on the beach at
the club La Mer à Table. The day is entirely dedicated to
Orchestra Baobab.
After struggling to get in touch, we managed to reserve a
table through Instagram with the guitarist. We’ve booked
lunch for 3 PM, well ahead of their performance, which
gives us the chance to eat first. The atmosphere is fantastic,
and the decor is beautiful. The roof with woven reed
lamps and the chairs where the musicians sit are especially
lovely.
We’re so excited that we enjoy everything happening
around us. The band is set up with their backs to the sea,
and surfers paddle in a rhythmic dance on the waves behind
them, occasionally a surfer zipping by on a wave enters
our view. Gradually, the place fills up. It’s a very diverse
crowd: young, old, white, and black. The band starts to
play, and almost immediately, an old man begins to dance,
soon joined by another. Then an older lady steps in with
the gentlemen, setting the tone for the evening.
The older folks take the lead, dancing to music they’ve
known for over fifty years. Most of the band members
have now been replaced by young men. They may not be
as good as their predecessors, but everyone is dancing and
enthusiastic. The guitarist who reserved our tickets plays
incredibly well. In the end, everyone is dancing in front
of, on, beside, and even under the stage.

Saly/ key
Like every morning, we take it easy. First, we
have breakfast—a kind of “continental breakfast,”
not as high quality as back home, but it’s perfectly
fine. The pastries are dry but tasty, and we’ve
gotten to know the staff by now, which adds to
the pleasant experience. Every morning, we sit
outside. Geertje feeds the fish crumbs (also pieces
of bread); there are an enormous number of
fish. Senegal boasts one of the most fish-rich seas
in the world. There are also significant contracts
in place that seem to be at the expense of local
fishermen. The new president wants to reopen
and renegotiate these contracts. He’s completely
right, but of course, the owners of those large fishing
companies don’t see it that way, even though
they can count down the days until there’s little
left if the sea is emptied out.
After breakfast, Bassirou takes us to the station,
which is very close, but we have to navigate
through one of the busiest and liveliest streets
in the city to get there. Stalls line the busy road,
and it’s teeming with people. By now, we know
that this hustle and bustle isn’t dangerous, but
it’s tough to get through with luggage, so we take
a taxi instead. We’re taking the brand-new train
that is supposed to eventually reach the new airport,
but for now, it stops at a station outside a
suburb where Serigne will come to pick us up.
I learned from Anaïs that I should call him when
I get on the train. He’s a childhood friend of hers
and takes care of the houses and guests. When
I finally reach him, he says I should have called
earlier because the train takes less time than he
does. We spend over an hour on the train, traveling
almost continuously through the suburbs
and outskirts of Dakar. It’s the same intriguing
world passing by us again.
The gray concrete unfinished city, with the occasional
neatly plastered minaret of a mosque
rising above it. Just like how churches used to be
built on the backs of the poor in our past, providing
support and solace, it’s probably the same
here now. When we arrive, it turns out the station
is “in the middle of nowhere.”
Surrounding the station is a massive construction
site, as they’re busy completing the final stretch
of highway and railway to the airport. The station
and track are being built by the Chinese. The
already completed highway was half constructed
by the French. It took them four years to finish,
as it was supposed to be done by then. The second
half was built by the Chinese in less than two
years. Serigne later tells me that the French work
one shift and take long lunches, while the Chinese
work three shifts without breaks, so progress
happens quickly! I suspect it works on concessions,
as you pay a toll like in France to the operator,
which in this case is French and Chinese!
We have to wait at least an hour, but when I message
Serigne, it turns out it will take even longer.
Geertje is grumpy; there’s nothing to do at the
station, and you can’t even get a drink. The shops
are prepared but still closed. I think the plan is to
build a city around the station, which will make it
busier, but for now, it’s still in a sandy wasteland.
It’s warm, and the only activity is the comings
and goings of trains and passengers. I stand at the
entrance with sliding doors where something has
been placed to let the breeze through. The draft
provides some cooling. Occasionally, a car pulls
up with travelers. I watch the people getting on
and off.

Geertje is sitting inside working on her laptop.
At one point, an old Mercedes passenger bus,
one I’ve seen many of, pulls up. This one is in decent
shape—not all dented and fully painted—but
it has porters and the typical roof rack. The bus
enters the roundabout and stops right in front
of me. Now I can take a photo. It may not be the
prettiest or most worn-out example, but it’s right
in front of me. As I take the picture, I hear a lot of
cheering behind me, and the first children begin
to gather around me from the right and left.
I start filming. It’s a large class with teachers and
a lot of luggage. They must have been on a camp.
Two porters climb onto the roof while one stays
below to hand up the suitcases. Once everything
is loaded, a net is pulled over to secure it all. The
spare tire, also on the roof, is placed at the end of
the net for ballast. The porters climb in last, and
the bus drives away. I feel like I’ve just watched a
play. All the waiting was worth it for me.
A little later, Serigne arrives, and we ride with
him to Anaïs’s house in Saly. The journey from
the station to Saly takes over an hour (Serigne
was stuck in traffic for a long time on the way
to the station), and we drive through a Baobab
forest. It’s not a forest like we have; it’s a sandy
plain with the occasional ancient tree. In the rainy
season, it’s completely green, but now it’s a
barren wasteland with trees and occasionally large
industrial complexes.
The trees are beautiful and survive because they
are old and deeply rooted, needing little water.
I can’t help but think of the Amazon rainforest,
where I was long ago. They were cutting down
the jungle to create farmland while leaving the
protected colossal Brazil nut trees standing, but
those can’t survive without the surrounding rainforest.
The trek to the forest was a sad, kilometers-long
journey where the trees farthest from
the forest were in the worst condition. It was a
massacre!
Fortunately, the Baobabs, which are also protected,
stand tall and seem to survive everything.
Saly is the largest beach resort in Senegal and is
adjacent to a beautiful natural area. Before we
eat, we decide to go for a swim. We change into
our swimsuits and leave everything in the house
behind, taking only a few thousand francs and
the house keys in my pocket.
We walk along the main road (all the places are
located along this long road by the coast), with
large hotels between the road and the sea. After
passing the last hotel, we walk onto the beach.
We discover that on one side of the beach is the
sea and on the other side, the lagoon. It’s a beautiful,
lively place. There are surfers, sailors, and
of course, people playing soccer. Along the shores
of the lagoon up to the sea, there are all these
charming beach shacks.

Later, we discover that we can’t reach the lagoon
on foot because the sea water flows in and out of
it. I go for a swim while Geertje stays on the beach
reading a book. The water is delightful, and there’s
so much life swimming and flying around me.
Right in front of me, a pelican swims on the waves,
a much different sight than in a zoo. I get out of the
water, dry off, and take a moment to look around
at everything happening. The journey has taken
almost the whole day, but it’s wonderful to be here
now, with our own house.
We decide to head back to the house to shower and
eat at the local place that’s been recommended to
us. I check my pocket and realize the key is missing.
How could I have done this? I went swimming
in the sea without emptying my pockets (which I
usually never do, I realize, and it has somehow always
worked out). The 2000 francs are still in my
pocket, but that’s of no use right now. How are we
going to get into the house? Panic starts to creep in
a bit. Geertje doesn’t even react very angrily; she
shares the same anxious feeling, especially since
she’s already having a frustrating day.
We go to the hotel, and after explaining that we
have a bit of a problem, we’re thankfully allowed
inside to ask at the reception for the number of
our hotel in Eindhoven to look it up and call to ask
them to contact Nard, who can then call Anaïs,
who in turn can call Serigne. I reach Maud on the
line and explain what she needs to do, asking her
to call back at the number I’m using once it’s sorted
out.
After waiting for a bit, I suggest that Geertje stay
at the hotel while I check to see if I can get into the
house somehow. When I arrive at the house, I see
the gardener from the neighbor’s yard standing at
the gate, making a call. After a while, he notices
me and asks if he can help. I ask if he knows Serigne,
but he doesn’t. In fact, he doesn’t know anyone
here. Then a white car stops a few houses down,
and a woman gets out.
I try to get her attention, and it works. She comes
over; her name is Pauline. I explain the situation,
and she says she knows Anaïs but only has her Senegalese
number. However, Anaïs isn’t in Senegal,
so that doesn’t help us. Pauline thinks she might be
able to get Serigne’s number somehow. I go inside
with her; she makes some calls, and we greet her
husband, who is sitting on the couch. After the last
phone call, we set off.
I get into her car, and we talk about everything except
the keys. After one more call, it seems to be
all sorted out. We go to the restaurant that was recommended
to us, and while we’re chatting with
the owner, Serigne arrives. He gets out of the car,
grinning widely, with a jingling set of keys in his
hand.
He was called almost simultaneously by both us
and Anaïs and luckily has a spare set of keys. I hop
back into Pauline’s car and ask if we can pick up
Geertje. When we arrive at the hotel, it turns out
that Geertje has had a great time and made friends.
She relaxed by the pool on a sunbed. I introduce
her to Pauline, and we drive back home. The gardener
has also arrived; he plans to spend the night
in the shed at the front of the garden to keep an eye
on things.
Less than an hour after I realized the keys were
missing, we are back home in peace. We want to
eat, and despite Geertje finding the local place we
know not very clean-looking, we decide to eat there
anyway. It’s cozy, the food is as simple as mentioned,
but quite good. I think it’s the best-prepared
fish I’ve had so far. What stands out, especially, is
the much slower pace of life in the village. We eat
and look around at all the things happening at a
leisurely pace. A shop owner, who has been dozing
in the doorway since this afternoon when we arrived,
wakes up and brings in the display case with
jewelry. The other shops are also closing.

They probably make their living from sales to hotel
guests who occasionally venture out of their
resorts to take a walk and buy a typical African
souvenir. Further along, people are playing boules
on a lit court. We head home, promising ourselves
to enjoy the tranquility and do nothing tomorrow.
When we wake up, we go grocery shopping,
which turns out to be quite a challenge. Once
again, we are tricked by a vendor who pretends
to own all the shops and ultimately sells us four
mangoes that aren’t even his for far too much money.
The mangoes and a bag of cashews are what
we’ll survive on until evening. We’re not really in
the mood for more shopping, especially since the
shops are very small and have limited offerings.
But these are the tastiest mangoes we’ve ever eaten.
I text Pauline to thank her and see if she’d like to
grab a drink together. We agree to meet near one
of the older and more beautiful hotels. Pauline
knows the bartender and the people who happen
to walk by. She is cheerful and energetic, even giving
something to a man who clearly doesn’t have
much money. Later, she tells me that she gives to
whoever she likes, and I realize that it’s much better
to brush off requests with a smile and be generous
than to act too seriously irritated or angry.
The begging is also quite energetic and cheerful!
For some reason, we have so much to talk about.
The conversation is lively.
I hear that Pauline had a very tough childhood,
moved here, met her husband, had children, and
now runs a business making and selling bags to
tourists. Despite not having an easy life, she is
full of life and bursting with energy. I haven’t
been able to translate everything, but despite
that, Geertje also found it a lovely encounter. In
the evening, we go out to eat at a place that Serigne
takes us to. He thinks the restaurant Anaïs
recommended is too expensive, and this place is
just as good. It turns out to be quite disappointing,
but as every evening, it’s super cozy with Geertje.
The next day, before heading back to Dakar, we
take Anaïs’s advice to visit the Le Memoires Africain
gallery. It’s about an hour’s drive along the
long coastal road, where everything seems to happen.
Once again, it’s wonderful to see so much.
The gallery is in an old building, and downstairs
there’s a lot of old ethnic African art. The owner’s
parents had a large collection of indigenous art,
which sparked his love for African art. This collection
formed the basis for his art business.

Meanwhile, it’s becoming increasingly difficult
to find old indigenous art, so he has also focused
on modern art. The gallery, with its upper
floors, is spacious, and the exhibitions are beautifully
curated. Once again, there are installations
that would not be out of place in a museum.
Especially striking is how the building has been
stripped bare, allowing the art to be displayed in
this raw yet tranquil environment. I purchase
a small piece by Jean Marie Bruce, a Rastafarian
artist who is primarily focused on creating!
I discuss with the owner the possibility of collaborating,
and he is open to it.
Slowly but surely, I realize that while I appreciate
typical African art, I’m not fond of the classical
style. I find the simplistic works of both
old and new art to be the most beautiful. It resembles
Art Brut, but it is created by artists who
have received formal training. Once we return,
we still have enough time to visit the lagoon
shacks selling oysters.
Both Serigne and Pauline have insisted that we
must try them. It’s not far, but it’s quite warm,
and the walk feels long. Geertje finds it tough
and wonders if it’s worth it. I enjoy it again and,
despite the monotonous route, I see many interesting
things along the way. The highlight
is two stackable plastic chairs, each consisting
of two stacked, sewn-together, and reinforced
seats.
These are little artworks that wouldn’t look out
of place on an exam. By the water, there are
canopies set up. A gentle breeze blows in from
the lagoon, and the tables are covered with tablecloths,
adorned with nailed-on plastic decorations.
Apparently, there are different vendors
here, as the ladies do their best to get us to sit at
their table. We choose to sit under the canopy.
The ladies come from a village on the other side
of the lagoon and have a license to cultivate and
sell oysters here. The Senegalese French is even
more complicated to understand here, but luckily,
there’s a lady who speaks standard French.

After a conversation, she returns with a platter of everything
they have. In addition to the oysters, they have three types of
shellfish and langoustines. We order a mix of everything. Surprisingly,
they also have beer and soft drinks, so we order a
beer, and Geertje wants a cola because it’s said to help when
you have a poor appetite and might experience diarrhea.
She isn’t completely at ease with the hygiene at the beach shack.
I reassure her that it’s fish that has simply been taken out of the
shell and cooked over the fire, so it should be safe. Gradually,
the shack fills up, which is a comforting thought. When the
first shellfish arrive, Geertje is completely won over. They are
shellfish we’ve never encountered before, roasted over the fire,
and they have an incredible smoky flavor like we’ve never tasted.
They are the best shellfish we’ve ever had, at a beach spot
that initially seemed unsettling. I leave a tip, and the ladies are
overjoyed. In hindsight, I think they had already charged us
too much and didn’t expect to receive a tip as well.
For us, it wasn’t expensive, and it was a fantastic experience
overall. Now that the ice is broken, they share all sorts of stories
about themselves and their business. The walk back is just
as long, but because we are so cheerful, it feels much shorter.
In the evening, we need to be back in time because we have
tickets to see Cheikh Lo at La Mer à Table. I have several of his
songs on my playlists, so I’m really looking forward to it. The
concert is a bit disappointing, especially since the sound doesn’t
get good until halfway through. It’s a bit odd, given that he
performs there every Wednesday, so you’d expect it to be routine.
The musicians, however, are exceptionally good, and the
ambiance with the music is wonderful. Tomorrow, we plan to
look for record shops in addition to galleries.

Record shops
By now, we’re getting better at planning where
we want to go, and Bassirou understands what
we’re looking for. I type the destination into
his phone, as it has navigation capabilities.
We see a lot of galleries again. The highlight is
once again Le Village d’Art, where we explore
the rest of the village and discover some beautiful
art and artists.
Finding the record shops is a bit trickier. The
first one is at an address that is hard to find,
and when we finally arrive, someone points
us to a door, but when we go inside, there’s nothing
to see. We try the next address, which is
also difficult to locate and turns out to be on
the other side of the block. The shop is called
Buffalo Soldier Record Store Vinyl. I think the
shop is no more than six square meters (about
2 by 3 meters). The soldier sits on a chair with
a stereo in front of him, and around him are
piles of records.
The records are not stored upright in shelves,
which would allow for more to fit and make it
easier to browse and categorize. Apparently,
the latter isn’t necessary, because when I ask
about some artists (Orchestra Baobab, of course,
and also Balla et Ses Balladins), he pulls a
stack out from a high pile, and the titles are indeed
there.
Based on the first records, he pulls out a few
more. We listen to the records, which are quite
old and scratchy. He thinks they’re fine; they
just need to be cleaned, but his cleaning supplies
are out. I ask about the price and am surprised.
After quite a bit of haggling, they end
up being about 40 euros each, which is much
more expensive than back home, and the quality
is questionable. There are indeed records
that aren’t available in Europe, but 40 euros is
still too much. He refuses to lower the price.
I’m actually fine with that; it was a fun and
quirky experience, and I don’t mind not making
a purchase. We ask Bassirou to take us
back to the hotel. The rest of the afternoon, we
stay near the hotel.
The Institut Français is our main goal; we can
have lunch there, and they also have a record
shop.
By now, I have a new payment ritual with Bassirou.
One of us gets to set the price, and if one
of us gets a good deal one day, the other one
gets to do so the next day. He’s much better at
it than I am and has established a kind of baseline
that is already very good. We’re actually
quite happy with our regular driver. The Institut
Français is located in a courtyard, and we
have to go through security to enter. Once inside,
it’s a lovely place with lots of greenery and
a large canopy covering the restaurant. Fans
hang everywhere.
It’s probably very hot in the summer. And there’s
a record shop. We decide to eat first, and afterward,
I’ll browse and listen to some records.
The young man working there is very friendly
and knowledgeable about music. I end up
buying 3 or 4 records for about 15 euros each.
The best one has a piece of paper stuck to the
edge of a cover that once got wet and has dried
out. I think it should be possible to remove it,
so I take the chance.

We’ve seen and done so much by now, far
from what a typical tourist would do. In Saly,
we experienced all sorts of things, but we didn’t
see anything of the nature reserve, and in
Dakar, we visited dozens of galleries and a few
record shops. Almost everyone has told us
that we absolutely have to go to Gorée Island.
The name dates back to the Dutch period
when the Netherlands was heavily involved in
the slave trade. The small island off the coast
of Dakar is named after Goeree Overflakkee
and served as a transshipment point for slaves
being shipped to America.
Bassirou actually wants to join us, but I make
it clear that we prefer to be alone on the island.
He doesn’t seem to mind too much, and
instead of doing something or working, he
just waits for us at the harbor. He’ll think he’s
working that way too. We buy tickets that are
twice as expensive for tourists and discover
that we’re not allowed to enter the building afterward.
Local passengers and school groups
are allowed in, though.
Once we’re finally allowed inside, we have to
sit in a waiting area first. People are still walking
around, apparently heading straight to
the boat. At one point, I’m sure we’ve missed
the boat and will have to wait for the next one.
Geertje is grumpy and wants to leave. I don’t
mind much as long as we get there and find it
amusing to pay double only to be treated worse.
Shortly after, we’re allowed into the terminal,
which also has a little shop where we buy
something to eat and drink.
Gorée is just off the coast, but the boat ride
through the harbors and a small stretch of sea
is quite an experience. Gorée is beautiful. The
arrival is idyllic; at the foot of the old fort on
the beach, a boy is almost naturally playing
football against the walls. Not only is the fort
still standing, but many of the houses and
buildings erected a few hundred years ago are
still there. Most are poorly maintained or in
disrepair, but those that have been restored
have been done so with a sense of history, giving
the village an authentic atmosphere. It’s
stunning, but on the other hand, the horrific
history is strikingly present.
When we’re allowed into the museum (which
is at set times), we wander through the house
of the slave trader and see where the slaves
stayed before being taken through a door to
the sea. We realize it would have been nicer
if the island didn’t have a Dutch name. The
exhibition has a lot of text, which I always
appreciate, and is beautifully designed. The
most striking part for me is the eyewitness
accounts of people who are now being exploited—“modern
slavery.” The building is painted
in Barragán-like eye-catching colors.
After we exit the museum, we walk through
the village. The houses and buildings on
the other side of the harbor (which is on the
mainland side) are dilapidated. As we continue
walking, we see that in the ruins of one
of the large buildings, there’s a dump, but
also that further along against the old walls of
crumbling buildings, huts have been made. It
probably would have been less work to put a
roof on the ruin or repair it, but they still prefer
to make a hut.

We pass a football field with artificial grass,
bleachers, and two goals. No one is playing, in
contrast to the sandy area in the middle of the
village a bit further on. There are two goals, one
of which is half wrapped around a tree, and a
large Baobab stands in the middle of the field,
around which they seem to be playing. A large
group of boys is shooting at the goal on the
other side of the tree. We walk on and discover
a gallery in the ruins of one of the buildings. I
love ruins, so this is a highlight for me. On the
outside wall, there’s a sign that says “exposition”
with a phone number. In this case, inside is
also outside, as the building has no roof, but the
walls still stand beautifully upright, and the artist
has nailed his work to the walls.
On the ground lies the material he works with.
Most of the pieces are a kind of primitive masks,
which I find the most beautiful. The artist
isn’t there, so we move on. Around the corner,
more of his work hangs in three window
niches. There, we see his name: Djibril Sagna.
The island is actually not spoiled at all. Some
areas are beautifully and well-restored, while
the rest is dilapidated but original. I realize that
if you have a lot of money and want to do something
good, you just need to figure out what you
want or can do, ensure it is restored and exploited,
and then sell it to those who will exploit it.
This way, it won’t cost anything, and you can do
the same somewhere else.
At the end of the day, we sail back. Bassirou is
lounging in his car. He drives us back to the hotel.
In the evening, we go out to eat at Seku Bi
again. This is where we had the best food, and
the atmosphere is lovely. Right outside, we encounter
the French banker again. He’s with a
friend who is clearly shaken. She has just narrowly
escaped a robbery; she barely managed
to hold on to her bag with both hands, and the
thief on a speeding scooter ultimately had to let
go. I realize now that the day before, a scooter
came speeding right at us, and I had told Geertje
that I wondered what the man was thinking.
Today is our last day. We leave around noon tomorrow,
so we decide not to do too much. Bassirou
has offered to take us to the largest fish
market in the city. When we arrive, it turns out
that it’s not a given that tourists can enter the
market. We wait for a while in the car while
he tries to arrange it. The first thing we hear is
that we aren’t allowed to take photos and that
we need to buy fish so we aren’t considered tourists.
Bassi manages to sort it out. At the market,
I understand why they don’t want photography;
it’s enormous, and fish are laid out on
wet cardboard on the ground. There aren’t any
smooth materials that can be easily cleaned,
and ice and water are scarce. At the end of the
day, I think everything just gets hosed down.

Artwork by Cuban artist
at the Musée des civilisations noires

But it’s beautiful; there’s a wide variety of fish
that are cleaned and prepared in different ways.
As we walk out from under the enormous concrete
roof at the back right, there’s a sort of market
with stalls selling dried fish. It’s a stunning sight,
and I want to walk over, but I step into a gutter
filled with fish liquid and sludge. Geertje and Bassi,
who are both wearing flip-flops, jump over the
gutter. The strange thing is that Geertje doesn’t
seem too bothered by how dirty it is, even though
this is by far the most questionable environment
we’ve encountered so far. It will take a few days
and some cleaning before my shoes stop smelling
like fish. The market for dried fish is quite large;
every day, all the fish sells out, and what remains
is dried, fermented, or otherwise processed. Now
we need to buy fish to avoid being considered
tourists. Geertje has figured out which ladies she
wants to buy from, but we need to find out where
they are again. When we locate them, Geertje is
thrilled; the money will go to the right place. But
what are we supposed to do with the fish? We tell
Bassi that we’ll return the fish to the ladies once
we’ve passed the porter.
He makes an arrangement with the older of the
two. So they’ve been paid and will get the fish back.
When I discuss this, Bassi explains that they have
to give the money to their boss, so the fish they get
back is essentially their payment. The lady is very
cheerful; accidentally, we’ve done what Geertje
wanted.
On the way back from the market, we stop by the
largest modern museum. There’s a mix of antique,
ethnic, and modern art on display, and it’s
all very beautiful and inspiring. We spend the rest
of the day lounging on the beach and enjoying the
sea. It’s Saturday, so it’s much busier than previous
days. The lifeguard is struggling with beds
and mattresses.
Now we see why everyone has a sunbed because
at midday, there’s hardly any beach left, and the
beds are almost in the water. The crowd is diverse,
but the lifeguard keeps a sharp eye on ensuring
that no swimmers from the other side of the pier
enter his water and beach. At one point, a young
woman conspicuously swims under the rope
with the balls, heading toward the beach. The lifeguard
whistles furiously and walks over to her.
She stands up, and with their feet in the water, a
heated discussion ensues. She is clearly being very
defiant, while he is just doing his job and making
sure she leaves. Geertje thinks it makes sense to
protect the beach to keep it safe, as there’s a kind
of threatening atmosphere everywhere.
I feel much more that at the same moment, it’s
both a theatrical performance and real drama.
The woman knows it’s not allowed, but she doesn’t
want to accept it just like that, and the lifeguard
understands her quite well. They are both
dark-skinned, and in the end, it’s about inequality
between white and black. Nowadays, it’s about
rich and poor, but unfortunately, that almost
follows the same dividing line. It’s his job to keep
things separate, and she has raised the issue. At
the end of the afternoon, before we go eat, I want
to check in and notice that it’s not working. I take
another look at the tickets and see that I made a
mistake. We’re not flying at the end of the morning
but in the evening. So we have almost a whole
day tomorrow. Since we can sleep in, we decide to
visit Trames one more time, a gallery with a kind
of club restaurant on the roof. The building is located
at the edge of Place de l’Independence. From
the roof, you have a view over Dakar.

There’s an Italian party, a large group of Italians
gradually gathering while we (quite late) are eating.
Italians eat later than anyone else here too!
A nice guy from the group seems to be the host;
he’s playing records on a small turntable with
speakers. They crackle a bit, but it’s fun, quirky
music, mostly African. He seems to care little
about the crackling; perhaps the standards for
sound here are different from ours. At one point,
I ask him if I can take a look at his records. Soon
we’re animatedly chatting about music, his life
here, the evening where his girlfriend is the chef,
his studies in Wageningen, and how he loves the
Netherlands.
I talk to him about the Buffalo Soldier; he tells
me that Pharrell Williams once visited him and
bought all his records, and since then, they’ve
become very expensive. It’s funny because we
recently sold the most exquisite table and chairs
we’ve ever made to Pharrell Williams! The prices
at our place haven’t gone up, though. At one
point, his friends come to get him a bit irritated;
isn’t he out for the evening with them? We keep
finding each other throughout the night. Eventually,
two men arrive who he’s had contact with.
They’re record dealers from a few villages away,
and one of their businesses is buying and reselling
records. We start listening a bit, and I feel
guilty because they’re essentially trying to sell records
to my new Italian friend.
He says he doesn’t need anything, so I decide to
buy a few myself. The manager of the place has
walked past a few times and spoken to the record
men. Now he comes over a bit angrily and asks
if they would like to leave. The men pretend to
know nothing, but later I understand that they
are very much aware that selling to guests is not
allowed. The manager realizes that foreigners in
Dakar are often harassed by sellers and feel uncomfortable,
and he wants everyone to be able to
relax.
I agree with him and thank him for his concern.
I’m leaving with a few great records, although I
have no idea how they’ll sound. The next day, we
take it very easy. We stroll around the center, eat
some more, and withdraw money to pay for our
last ride. Bassirou, our taxi driver, takes us to the
airport. This is the first ride where I know what it
should cost. We drive away, and for the first time,
the streets are calm. Even the first part heading
towards the station, which is usually impassable,
is empty. Some stalls are open, but most are
closed or completely gone, and there are hardly
any people. I ask Bassi where everyone is. He tells
me it’s Sunday, so everyone has gone home. Most
people have a house outside of Dakar where they
stay on Sundays and holidays. So all those people
I thought lived on the street actually have homes.
On the plane, the processing of the trip begins.
I had hoped that this journey would somehow
provide connections to work with African artists
and craftsmen. We’ve seen a lot of art and
met artists and wonderful people, discovering a
few products that could be worthwhile. We met
Pauline, and somehow I think and feel that we
can collaborate; she understands what drives me.
The idea of initiating the “Eindhoven Dakar Art
and Design Rally” has been born.